


the art of dying

by Vintage (KyberHearts)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Danse Macabre, Established Relationship, Immortality, Other, Reader-Insert, Vampires, discussing death, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-08 09:34:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15240492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyberHearts/pseuds/Vintage
Summary: “If the plague doesn’t kill us, then it’s either war or famine. ‘Death comes swifter, but all the same’.”---The higher vampire never had to challenge the notion of death before.At least, not before the night of thedanse macabre.





	1. danse macabre

**Author's Note:**

> "the art of dying" oh my god what an edgy title (i kinda love it)
> 
> anyways, i’m taking a death&dying class not only is it Fascinating, it fits well with an idea I’ve been stewing for a while. i haven't read a lot of fics, but i also haven't seen one where we take advantage of the Blue Eyes quest a la we can make vampires
> 
> That being said, I am responsible for the portrayal and discussion on death customs in the story. My intention is to maintain the integrity of the danse macabre (in the context of the Witcher universe) while also taking my own philosophical, psychological, and cross-cultural approach. If I ever portray something incorrectly, please, please let me know, and tell me how I can write it better!  
> \---  
> thank you mulletzombie for writing such wonderful comments and for inspiring me to actually go ahead and write another dettlaff fic! i hope to write more in the future~

_May the plague take you._

_Death comes swifter, but all the same._

The phenomenon of the dance of death stirred in the Northern Kingdoms, and it crawled across the continent like spider veins with the onset of plague. Dividing the city in two factions, dressing up in gothic robes, donning skeletal masks, dancing and singing until you were loud enough to truly wake the dead-- it seemed like such a crude, bold idea. Higher courts denounced the art.

Of course, that only made the _danse macabre_ more beloved.

Torchlight illuminates your local town square, casting ghastly shadows along cobblestone and pale façades; it seems appropriate to celebrate each and every festival on a new moon. A strings quartet with paint on their eyelids and cheekbones begin to tune their instruments. Children draped in black veils dash around the alleyways to bang on doors and drag the unwitting humans to the dance.

It’s a different sort of specter that summons you.

The vampire finds you in low light as you head towards the main square, with the last of crimson wisps dissolving in lieu of solid flesh and blood. A hand slips round your waist, barely touching nonetheless warm through the fabric. Another hand hesitates, then tilts your head up.

“May the plague take you,” so goes the customary greeting.

He grasps your hands, presses his cold lips against them, and then starts to lead you to the sounds of a swirling _danse macabre_. Like slipping underneath briny ocean waters, it is too easy to drown in the communion of tactless living and ivory skeletons -- unless you have a mooring line, or a strong set of lungs, or Dettlaff van der Eretein.

Dettlaff represents neither the dead nor the living; tonight, he is someone who bridges that veil with cats’ eyes and sharp teeth. He has gracefully unbuttoned his coat to reveal a flattering, wine-dark Toussaint-styled waistcoat. There’s an unusual spring in his step; perhaps the presence of the dead, however pretend and make-believe, invigorates him.

You and Dettlaff wind through the crowd, stand near the outskirts of the square, and bow deeply to each other. When you look back up to your partner, he is already gazing at you.

Dettlaff knows the dance intimately; it is a festival in both of his worlds, but whereas his kinsman mocks the fallacy of death, mortals embrace the idea.

And he knows death walks in all forms of life, but when you reach up and tuck a lock of black hair behind his ear, Dettlaff forgets how to breathe. You smile. “For a vampire who is meant to live forever,” you say to him, “What does death mean to you?”

The vampire idly runs his hand down your spine, resting on the small of your back. You mustn’t forget that this is, after all, a dance, as he slowly starts to guide your movements. “In terms of mortal lives, it means little. It has no more significance than a change in the weather.”

“Ah, Dettlaff,” you chuckle, shaking your head. “Think beyond our limited longevity.”

He narrows his eyes. “Then what shall I think?”

“Well, I don’t believe that you are here to scrutinize how many years I have left,” you reply wryly.

“No,” Dettlaff says. “I am here for your company.” He takes your hand and spins you round so that your back presses up against his broad chest. You feel his lips touch your neck.

You crane your head to look at him. “Is this part of the dance?”

He laughs softly. _What a rare, exceptional sound._ “No, but make it so.”

You murmur assent.

The music pitches and becomes more vivid, faster and lively. The alabaster white skeletons start to converge on the living. Children hiding behind their veils, which are truthfully scraps of burlap covered in soot, shriek and chase each other.

Together, you watch the world and its people dance past as you sway side to side, not really moving or standing still. Somewhere in the middle. You clear your throat and ask, “Will you miss me if I died tomorrow?”

You hear his breath hitch in his throat. “Yes,” Dettlaff answers, “though I would not be surprised.”

“No one should be surprised,” you tell him. “If the plague doesn’t kill us, then it’s either war or famine. ‘Death comes swifter, but all the same’ _.”_

“Does it... scare you?” His low, demure voice is hesitant.

“I suppose it should,” you say pensively, “so we perform the _danse macabre_ because it makes us unafraid. ”

Higher vampires have lived twice over: the world before the Conjunction of Spheres, and the world after, as well as his name, status, and tongue. You, you will gray and age before the century passes. Who you are and how you live-- is everything he does not represent. And yet, all the two of you share is time.

Dettlaff closes his eyes briefly; he realizes that he might have only one chance with you.

“I propose,” he says, thinking about your smile or the unforgiving silver in your hair, “that death is the exit of something, or someone, or everything that was once great.”

“Hmm.”

He draws you closer and asks, “Does that satisfy as an answer?”

“For now.” You grin. “Actually, it is a fantastic conclusion.”

“I aim to please. Of course, it seems mortals love to warp and… idealize the notion of dying.” Dettlaff does not wish to point out that you are, of your own free will, in the arms of a monster.

Everything about him promises violence. Yet, you embrace it all.

“I wish you to come with me to Temeria.”

You start in surprise, and turn around. “Temeria? Why?”

Dettlaff folds his arms across his chest and grimaces. “I’ve heard that there is a higher who creates others. They say that she can transform humans with a bite.” The color leaves your face. “But I do not want to speculate; come with me and let’s investigate these claims.”

You don’t really know what to think. It is a promise of life; a cure to the dance of death. “To live forever? As a vampire?” You pretend to smooth out the front of Dettlaff’s waistcoat, but you can’t hide the way your voice wavers. “What an idea. What a wondrous idea.”

 _Dettlaff van der Eretein._ Of course. He is a man who would defy the idea of mortality for the sake of a passing whim, a fleeting fling with one of the local townsmen. He cannot-- he cannot truly think that you are worth this sort of opportunity.

Then again, Dettlaff can be wholly unpredictable.

The music of the festival seem to fade as he steps forward and cups your face with his hands. He closely studies you, like he wants to ingrain your features in memory. As if it’s him on the verge of death. “I cannot promise anything,” the dark-haired man says finally, “but I want to do this.”

Your question slips out: “Why?”

Thunderous applause suddenly rush all around you. The musicians have finished, and the dance is nearly done. The mortals dressed in their finest garbs kiss the hand of their skeleton partner, who reluctantly slink back into the shadows.

Then Dettlaff kisses you, trying to make the two of you forget about this wicked, romantic idea that loved ones find each other in the afterlife.

And you suppose, this is his answer.


	2. liminal, or "in between"

Somewhere along the path to Vizima, Temeria, Dettlaff purchases a small metal ring puzzle; it keeps him mildly entertained during your travels. You know that he’s always loved to tinker, obsessed with fixing up toys and solving riddles with his hands. And you learn, thanks to the company he keeps, that the vampire is very tactile.

You discover more unique traits about Dettlaff, like the way he wakes up in the morning (slowly, blearily, as if he’s seeing everything for the first time) or how he whets the short ornate dagger strapped to his back every other day, despite having no need for such. You ask him about its use and he replies that it is easier to cut ropes or skin carcasses without having to resort to vampirism. Even his kisses, hesitant and languid, taste different once the two of you are miles away from familiar territory.

Dettlaff barely ever glances into the rivers you pass, nor does he have trouble falling asleep next to you. He seems… human, if it weren’t for barely perceptible quirks, ones you wouldn’t actively seek in others. Missing shadows and reflections. Incredible reflexes and the air of someone who’s too familiar with the world. Though journey’s end offers you the life of a vampire, he hardly makes mention of his nature.

One evening, a sudden storm prompts you to seek shelter. Usually you would pay for a night in the nearby tavern, but there are no signs along this dusty, half-forgotten route. Throwing his heavy coat over you, Dettlaff whisks you deeper into the evergreen forests that surround all around.

“There’s a cave further up ahead,” he tells you.

“How do you know?”

Dettlaff doesn’t look back. “I can hear the bats.”

True enough, after a few minutes of trekking through shallow streams and breathing in that wonderful, earthy scent of rainfall, you emerge through the brushes and see a gaping cave mouth lined with stalactites. He motions for you to wait, then enters the cavern. He dissolves into the darkness as easily as stepping into thin air.

Then he reappears and gestures for you to follow. As you carefully pick your way, Dettlaff idly grasps one of the low-hanging stalactites and snaps it off as if it were a brittle twig. He tosses it aside and holds out a hand to help you over the slick rocks. “Watch your head.”

The cave floor is smooth and eroded. There are claw marks on the walls, indicating some wildlife had taken up residence a long time ago; if you listen close enough, the faint chatter of bats were audible from the ceiling depths.

Dettlaff strikes up a small fire and passes his hands through the flames, watching you set down the knapsacks and unfurl a blanket. The flickering lights stir and wake dormant moths, who gather and join your company.

You stretch out on the blanket and tuck your hands under your head. Dettlaff lies down next to you, pale eyes fixed on the way rain drips from the cave mouth stalactites. He’s expressionless. A lock of hair falls across his face, but he doesn’t smooth it back. You gently nudge him with an elbow. “You’re brooding again.”

“According to you, I’m always brooding,” he murmurs, eyeing you with a mix of apprehension and amusement.

A wicked smile touches your lips. “It suits you. What are you thinking about?”

“Mmm. If the storm lets up by tomorrow, we’ll be in the capital before the full moon wanes. A few nights, no more than four.” Dettlaff finds and toys with the metal ring puzzle aimlessly, the soft _clink!_ joining the thunder beyond the cave, and the crackling campfire. “It is imperative to be cautious. My kin are often seen in Vizima, but they could be incognito, or have been long driven out by the city guards.”

“How did you know, then, about this higher vampire?”

His hands pause. “Another higher mentioned it in passing; he did not think it would be of significance to either of us.”

“I suppose that if this opportunity was common knowledge,” you murmur, “there would be no shortage of humans flocking to Vizima. The appeal of eternal youth, an escape from the mundane of everyday life-- all it takes is leaving behind everything you ever hated. And yet...”

“You hesitate.”

“Yes.”

Dettlaff sighs. “It is your right. But if we arrive in Vizima, and discover that fiction is true, would you still refuse?”

You reach over and steal the puzzle from him. It is warm to the touch as you casually pull at its opposite ends. “Let me ask instead,” you say, “that if we discover that this was all for naught, would you let the rumor remain where it lies? Does an idea like immortality fade so quickly? I will not spend my life searching for an answer that does not exist.”

He reaches over and grasps your wrist. You look up; his gaze, though warm in firelight, is all too serious. “But if it does?”

You smile, despite how his eyes bore into you. “Therein lies the challenge, Dettlaff. You refuse to give up. This is not a decision I can make in two short months.”

The proposal comes swift and soft.

“Let me choose for you.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“ _No_ , Dettlaff. I won’t let you decide my fate.”

“I don’t--” The vampire searches for the right words. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Lamenting about romantic affairs does not suit him. You sit up, seize the front of his crumpled white shirt, and yank him up to face you. You demand, “Do you trust me, Dettlaff? Do you trust that I won’t forget what I feel for you, or how you chase me to the end of worlds?”

“With all I have, of course, but--”

“You _have_ me,” you interrupt gently. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Dettlaff stares helplessly. He reaches up and strokes your cheek, fingers rough but gentle. “Then neither am I,” he says.

Everything about him is taut: his shoulders, his gaze, his voice. He doesn’t look wholly convinced by your words, nonetheless the corners of his mouth twitch upward in an effort to reassure you. The hearth and storm are the only sounds to fill the cavern for a few moments; the shadows on the walls tremble with every heavy breeze.

The gray in Dettlaff’s hair seems to stand out in the dim light. He looks older, more regal. You’d like to say that it makes him look distinguished but he usually scowls at compliments.

He is the first to move, tilting your chin up and kissing you, his own lips soft and fleeting as if he’d balk at the first sign of uncertainty. So you link your hands behind his neck and shift forwards til you’re almost enveloped in his arms-- then Dettlaff tugs you into his lap and there’s hardly a moment to gasp before he’s kissing you again.

His hands never remain still for long-- they rest on your waist, then fly up to cradle the small of your back and memorize the space between the notches of your spine. They pass over the buttons of your frock and waver, unsure. Studying you like a puzzle or an enigma with curves and contours, as if Dettlaff was trying to solve the mystery of you.

Dettlaff drops his mouth and kisses the cords in your throat, grazing his fangs on occasion. Each prick against your skin makes your toes curl in suspense. He’s neither arrogant nor daring enough to leave visible bruises on your skin.

Besides, the vampire knows that you’re his lover, with or without the bite marks.

You’re not sure when the campfire becomes merely glowing embers. (Somewhere between Dettlaff pinning you down on the blanket and when _he’s_ on _his_ back, but you can’t remember and your cheeks have started to burn just thinking about it.) Its absence is replaced with serene sounds of chirping crickets and buzzing cicadas. You realize that the storm has passed, too.

“Dettlaff,” you murmur sleepily, your head against his chest. His heartbeat is slow, slower than a human’s, but it is an unmistakable sign of life. “It stopped raining. Fair weather for Vizima.”

He stirs slightly. Then, although you can’t see his face, Dettlaff smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (・ω・｀)……… i don’t even know the word for this but im just super bad at being not embarrassed when it comes to soft (physical) stuff ~~which is why i dont publish a lot of it~~


End file.
